


Breaking Patterns

by Anna__S



Category: Alias (TV), Spooks | MI-5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 20:38:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1831504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna__S/pseuds/Anna__S
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sark has an unfortunate track record with partners.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Patterns

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Alias' second season. Originally written and posted in 2004.

The first thing Sark does after escaping custody is take a shower. The water beats down on him, not quite hot enough to scald, and he can almost feel the grime, the degradation of the past six months slipping away.

He dresses slowly in front of the mirror, noting each new bruise, the bones protruding out of his hip, and the sunken skin around his eyes.

It’s only when he closes his eyes and touches his shirt’s soft silk that he starts to feel like himself again. Irina once told him, with obvious pride, that he was just a shell of a person, and he wonders if a person can be the shell of a shell.

Later, dry and fed, Sark begins to sift through the mountain of files they left on his bed. Six month’s worth of intelligence is hardly insignificant. Sydney Bristow’s file alone seems to have doubled in size. But the first thing that makes him blink is the fact that they’ve already assigned him a new partner.

Like him, the Covenant seems to have noticed that he has an unfortunate track record with female associates. He fucks them and then they die. Sometimes, he even attempts to spare them by not sleeping with them, but they manage to die anyway.

The only woman to escape that fate was Irina, but Sark’s fairly sure that none of the world’s rules apply to her. With a private smile, he wonders if her daughter is equally immune.

But his new partner is neither a female nor a Bristow. His name is Tom Quinn, and with a little amazement, Sark reads that he’s a former MI-5 agent. In the few short months since his departure from that agency, Quinn has managed to put together an impressive file.

Holding his glass up in the air, Sark toasts his new partner. Here’s to your survival, Tom Quinn, he thinks and sips his wine, savoring its sweet sting.

 

***

 

After so many years outside of Britain, Sark’s nearly forgotten what a true English accent sounds like. His own has become flattened, Americanized without his realizing it. But Tom’s voice is rich and accented and nearly impossible to read.

When Sark sat down at the seat next to him, he says, “So here’s the Covenant’s new rising star.”

“You must be Mr. Sark,” replies Quinn, shaking his hand.

“I thought spooks were supposed to be untouchable. Completely devoted to the cause of their beloved nation,” Sark says, only allowing a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

“Obviously not,” he answers, still unruffled. In the handsome, almost pretty face, his eyes are steeled, and Sark feels a surge of respect.

“Here’s the specs on our first assignment,” he continues, “why don’t you read them, and then we can hammer out the details.”

Sark has to admit that the plan is almost flawless. No matter how many times he combs through it, he can only find a few minor errors. Shoulder to shoulder, they rework the plan slightly and arrange their travel plans.

“But I’ll be the one who enters by the front,” says Sark with authority.

“Absolutely not. You may be more experienced, but I know the set-up. I’ve been tracking this artifact for weeks.” He adds, “Besides, you’re barely fit to be in action. You haven’t touched a gun in nearly six months. I’m not going to allow ego, yours or mine, to fuck this up.”

He remembers then, that this is a man who is used to leading. Tom may even be right; Sark’s still two shirt sizes smaller than he used to be and his muscles have gone slack from lack of use.

 

***

 

The op goes smoothly, perfectly. With the first rush of adrenaline, Sark is himself again. He can still feel it in his system, even on the plane ride home.

“Who was that brunette who recognized you?” Tom asks.

“Sydney Bristow. You might call her a former acquaintance,” he says, since any longer explanation would take the rest of the day.

“I read her file. She’s mixed up in all that Rambaldi crap. I told them when I came in that I’d work for them, but I thought their prophecies were complete bollocks. That’s not why I’m here.”

Sark raises an eyebrow. “Why are you here then?”

Tom meets his eyes evenly, calmly. “I might ask you the same question.”

“Profit. Power. I learned very early not to trust anything else.”

“Except for yourself.”

“Of course.”

The few times that Tom’s mentioned MI-5, his voice has become noticeably more bitter. Feelings, any feelings, can be shaped, the Irina of his memories warns him. His fists clench, but even then, some detached part of him marvels at the irony of the memory.

He’s only discussed Irina twice, both times with Allison, and he imagines that he sounded exactly like Tom.

“I think of her as a mother.”

“I heard she fucks you,” Allison replied, knife sharp.

“All the same.”

“You’re one sick puppy,” Allison said, envy, admiration and disgust tangled in her voice.

Sark blinks the thought away, and realizes that Tom is also staring into space, lost in thought.

 

***

 

“You’re a bit of a slut,” Tom observes as Sark returns to their table, the music still vibrating in his blood.

Sark takes a shot and smiles. “Jealous?”

The girl from the dance floor reappears and leans against him, pressing her chest against his shoulder. She runs her fingers along his scalp and giggles.

“I’m monogamous by nature,” Tom replies.

The girl presses one hand against his thigh. “That’s not what I meant,” says Sark as he begins to kiss her neck, feeling Tom’s eyes on his face. Her skin is salty with her sweat and unbelievably soft.  He lost his virginity after his first operation, and since then, sex has been inevitably tied to his work. Tonight's op has left him craving adrenaline, like a junkie without a fix.

His fingernails dig into the bare slice of white between the soft cotton of her shirt and her skirt, leaving red crescents in her skin as he pulls her into his lap. She straddles him, burying her face in his neck. Over her shoulder, Sark watches as Tom comes up behind her.

Suddenly, Quinn's expression changes. Without a word, Sark knows that they must’ve been tracked down. In one quick movement, he’s up and running for the door, gun in hand.

“Who was it?” he asks Quinn, as they near the car.

“Two of Palmer’s men. I don’t think they saw us, but we should probably lay low just in case.”

“There’s a safehouse I’ve used before nearby. We’ll go there.”

The safehouse in Amsterdam is less foul than most of them, but still demonstrates a stunning lack of taste. The colors clash and run, making him feel even more disoriented.

Tom sits down next to him and nudges his thigh, reminding Sark that he has a lingering erection.

“I saw you with that same expression earlier, when we were in that gilded room. In an earlier life were you an interior decorator?” Quinn asks.

“Unlike you, I’ve never enjoyed a legal occupation.”

Sark opens his mouth, starting to ask him what made him turn, but is cut short by Tom snaking his hand down his leg. Sark is staring at his hand so intently that he’s surprised again when Tom kisses him.

He learned early on that to survive he had to be a chameleon in every way. But most of the men he’s kissed have been like him; fucking to release a little energy, cold, and completely calculated.

But Tom’s mouth is warm and he kisses so hard that he’s almost, but not quite, out of control. His hands skirt the line between violence and passion as he presses Sark against the bed.

As Tom works on the buttons on his shirt, Sark grins and says, “Your file said you only liked women.”

The shirt falls free, and Tom presses the tip of his tongue against his nipple. Sark's pants are growing increasingly tight, and he arches upwards, into Quinn’s stomache. He always maintains at least a veneer of control, but he’s been in a cell for so long that his body is racing ahead of him.

“I wouldn’t expect you to believe everything you read,” answers Tom. He says something else, but it’s lost in Sark’s skin.

 

***

 

They fuck and they fight and occasionally, they come within a hair’s breadth of dying. But Tom is made of tougher material then Lauren or even Allison.

He’s ruthless too. That’s the fury in him, bottled so tightly that when it escapes it’s explosive. Occasionally, it worries Sark. At least, he has a pattern. At least you know that he’ll always act in own interests. But Tom is unpredictable, and because of it, more dangerous in some ways.

“I’d have to be insane to be here,” Tom mutters at him more than once, as he pulls out his gun or gives him a blowjob in the backseat of their car.

And despite everything, Sark never entirely forgets that the first time they fucked happened because he almost asked a question Tom didn’t want to answer. That didn’t have to mean anything; after all, he also had secrets.

But Irina trained him to think logically, to pick apart actions and words until only the threads of truth were left. So he watches and waits and they fuck and Tom doesn’t die.

 

***

 

“We completely botched that operation,” Tom repeats.

“We had faulty intelligence. The Covenant can’t possibly hold it against us,” Sark repeats, beginning to get annoyed by Tom’s agitation. Every few minutes his leg twitches against Sark’s, and his breathing is shallow and uneven.

“We’ll deal with it in the morning,” Sark says firmly, closing his eyes. He considers, and then starts to exhale and inhale at regular intervals. His instincts are answered after an hour, when Tom tiptoes out of bed and walks out the front door.

Sark follows him at a distance, and it’s not until Tom has closed the door of the phonebooth behind him that he comes close enough to hear Tom’s frantic comments.

“You should’ve told me you were going to fuck up our Op, Zoe. You almost blew my cover.”

He pauses, clearly cut off. “No, I don’t give a damn about that. This is bloody ridiculous. Do you have any idea-” he pauses again, but this time he hears the door opening and spins around.

Sark presses his pistol against his forehead, watching him go completely still.

“Who’s Zoey?”

Tom opens his mouth to speak, but Sark cuts off any explanations. Through the phone, he can hear a woman screaming.

 

***

 

Along with a thick file on Agent Tom Quinn’s true motives and all of his possible leaks and assets, Sark attaches an unsigned personal note.

He reads it to himself as he writes, from now on, I work alone.


End file.
